


Short Writings

by CaptainRedWinter



Category: Captain America (Comics), Harry Potter - Fandom, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Original Work, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural, captain america movies, the avengers- ambiguous fandom
Genre: Deamus, Destiel - Freeform, Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Original Character(s), Religeous Angsting, Stucky - Freeform, dean thomas/seamus finnegan - Freeform, original writing - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:27:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainRedWinter/pseuds/CaptainRedWinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short, multi fandom drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rememberances

Stucky  
Prompt: " It's the bullet holes we see in their skin/Scars, and the chance to touch them."

 

Large, callused hands slide over scarred panes of muscle. They trade whispers, rememberences.  
"I thought you were dead."  
"I thought you were smaller"  
So much is different; He's not really Bucky anymore. He's James. Harder, colder, quieter from all the things he's seen and done.  
So much is the same; it's just the two of them. The world might as well have disappeared.  
But even back in the war it was never quite like this. Back then, if Bucky happened to curl up next to Steve, it was only to keep warm, of course. Now it's still to shield him, but not from the elements, from the nightmares and the ghosts of his past. Now James cries Steve's name, and it's a desperate plea, a prayer, a talisman against the night. Steve feels James's metal fingers digging into his back, not painful, just a reminder that they're here, together. And it's different, James thinks distractedly, different from all the times before. Different from those two dames, the night before he left for England. Different from Natasha, even. He laughs at a stray thought. "Jesus, Barnes, you sound like a dame" he thinks, but he knows it's true. This isn't just fucking. This isn't even sex. So this is what it's like to make love.


	2. Holy Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deamus

Deamus

Holy words fall heavy from his lips, penitences, half-believed. He remembers kisses stolen in secret, the world fading to nothing but chocolate skin and warm dark eyes and soft whispers of promise and love. "God is merciful," the priest's words echo in his ears, "God is love," he says, "God forgives even your sins." Why, then, he wonders as the well-worn beads slip through his fingers, as the Hail Marys fade in the empty church, Why then is it a sin to love?


	3. Destiel

Destiel  
Sinner, Unholy, Sacrilege. The admonishins spiral through his head, a cacaphony of shame and wrongs. And with them come the memories, painful as they are sweet. Secret kisses, secret hopes and prayers and dreams. So many words he'd never voice. He wonders if he's falling, and if he is, why he couldn't care less. If this is becoming human, it might not be so bad. Oh, how the others would laugh to see him now, confused and stumbling, falling in love with a human- and a man, no less. He can't believe that the Father would really condemn love, no matter how it fell. And when he sees Dean, he thinks to himself that heaven is overrated- he has all the paradise he needs, right here.


	4. Listen

He sees their stories, like words written on their skin; clearer than if they’d sat down with him and given their whole life story. Every dream they’ve yearned for, the secrets they hide, letters in lines across their faces and clothes. And he reads them, like a book. He remembers them, all of them. Because who else will? Who else remembers the beggers and junkies and prostitutes, as insignificant in death as they were in life? They lean against a dingy wall in a back alley as their last breath escapes; they cease to breathe, not live, no. Their life had left them long ago, together with the empty, inaudible pleas from their lips.

He speaks for them now; he is their voice, the voice of the lost, the forgotten. The dead. Insane, sociopath, not to be trusted, the others say, not -understanding- that they need only listen to what he says, what the silent say through him. How many, how many, he wonders could be saved with one word? A hand outstreched in their darkest hour, something to grasp onto.

And he, he alone, that wonderful, incomprehensible man. This one, (so unique!) isn’t to be read. The letters are absent, the lines blurred. He can see the basics, but only in soft, fractured glimpses, like a mirror made of quicksilver running downhill. He can’t explain the lights that flicker on behind those grey eyes when he laughs, how that careworn, weatherbeaten face still holds so much youth. How despite the pain that he can hear as the other sleeps, the man is still so alive. Alive, finally! That last grail that he’d never known he was missing- life, glorious, painful, bright. And the life spreads, waking the sleeping, giving voice to the silent. He speaks their words and this time, the others hear. 

They listen.


	5. Winter

All around him was winter. His past his present, his future; all is white, snow. Not clean, just cold and empty and bare. White snow, black trees. And red. Everywhere red. It spreads in his vision like blood on the snow. The flag of the motherland, in the cold white sky. Her hair spread across the blank white of the sheets. The star on his arm that marks him- Theirs. Cold, cold metal, merged with skin where he supposes a flesh-and-blood arm must once have been.

Now he’s out in the cold again, perched high on a black branch. One breath in. (White.) One heartbeat. (Red.) As single controlled flex of that inhuman extension of his (their) will through the metal. 

(Black.)

Then back in, to that deeper cold. Stiasis, cold storage, whatever you call it.  
The thing is, he thinks, about mind control, is that part of you knows. Part of you sees the blood on your hands, feels the trigger under your finger, the hilt of the knife in your palm, and tries to scream “Stop! I won’t!”   
But nothing happens.

She understands, she’s been there. Is there. Sometimes they wake each other, knowing what they risk. They keep each other human, and for that- for that their masters punish them.   
(Bruises purple-blue-black bloom like crushed flowers on her pale skin.)

Memories, faded- he can’t remember her- knows he’s seen her before...Somewhere...

And sometimes, he wakes alone, filled with a feeling so hollow, a void that won’t fill. he can feel the emptiness screaming from the hole in his chest where his heart was (before they stole that, just like the memories). Her red hair and bright eyes mix and swirl with another face, strong and firmilliar, blonde and blue. And the void is filled with a vauge dream of being held close, like he was the most precious thing, held warm in strong arms. 

(Safe.)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, this was done for a creative writing assignment. It was only supposed to be 500 words, but it ran away a little... Oh well! For bonus points, spot the copious fandom references.

Washington was gorgeous in the spring. The cherry trees that were so common in the city were in full bloom, and the slightest breath of wind would send the petals floating like snowflakes to rest in drifts against the monuments of the national mall. Steven Cohen stood with his children and grandchildren by the side of the fountain in the midst of the memorial to his war. 

"We could go to the Natural History Museum...or the Lincon Memorial... Or lunch... Pops?" Steven shook off the stupor he had fallen into to see the elder of his two grown sons, James, looking at him, expecting some kind of answer.  
"Ah- Why don't you, Alfred and the kids go get ice cream? If I remember right, there's a shop a few blocks that way," he said vaugly, gesturing to one of the arches. "I think I'll stay here a while..." James nodded, then turned to the horde of grandchildren, ranging from little Ben, barely two, to Clara who was seventeen and surgically attached to her camera.

"Who wants ice cream?"

After they had procured the promised ice cream, the group returned to the memorial. The kids (And Alfred) flopped down to eat while James went off to find his father.  
He finally located the old man on the west side of the memorial, staring up at the wall of stars.  
"One for every hundred men," Steven said quietly.  
James stood for a moment in silence, the sheer number of the little symbols barely registering.  
"C'mon, Pops. The kids are waiting."

Steven didn't hear him. He was a thousand miles and sixty years away, lost in memory. In his mind he stood with another James, not his son, but the son's namesake. His closest friend and more.

Maybe it had been a love-in-the-trenches story; after all, soldiers, especially young ones far from home, were known to take their comfort where they could find it- but they had been different. There was the usual amount of wary drunken fumbling in alleys and tents, but behind this there was more. Every touch carried a charge, like the smell of the air after a summer storm. Every glance between them held something unspoken. They didn't need words to say what was on their minds. Sure, it got them a bit of ribbing from the guys, but no more than Private Tyler got for his English nurse.

"Save some Nazis for me!" James had yelled to him as they charged up the beach, bullets hissing by like so many angry metal wasps. Then he had stumbled, a look of suprise on his face. A wasp had stung, leaving a dark stain that spread quickly over the waterlogged cotton of James' uniform.  
"Ah, hell," he muttered, hands scrabbling vainly at the wound "Always figured this'd happen eventually... You go kill some krauts for me, yeah?" Steve nodded dumbly, ignoring the blood and noise of battle. "See you on a few decades, Steve. Not a second sooner, y'hear?" 

"I hear ya. You better be waiting, punk."

"Yeah yeah. Don't hurry." He had said distantly as his eyes dimmed. Steve stayed there a second longer, then gently closed James's staring eyes and charged up to the lines.

Half of them were gone. Just like that. Seven boys, lost on the beaches, their final rights read out only by the waves that lapped at their boots. When they stopped, finally, for the night Lieutenant Dugan had pressed into his hands a grubby, crinkled envelope with his name scrawled in James's firmilar handwriting across the flap. He gruffly clapped Steve on the shoulder, then shuffled away to give him a bit of privacy.

They all stood by him, because, in their minds, him loosing James was no different from when Private Tyler's girl Rose had gone and run off with that hotshot doctor; it was a tragedy and a waste. Sure, it was diffenent; they too grieved for James- he'd been one of their own, their Sarge- but at the core, even the boys understanding couldn't fix the hole in his heart.

Sixty years later, a stooped old man raised a grizzled hand and touched a star.  
"Alright, James, let's go eat that ice cream."  
"I got your favorite. Butter crunch."  
The old man and his son walked in comfortable silence towards their family, eating their ice cream.


End file.
